


took a little time to make it a little better

by decideophobia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Eat,” Derek says again. Stiles quirks his eyebrows, and even though he appears exhausted, there’s a trace of a challenge in his eyes.</p>
<p>“Or what?” he prompts, a little grin is pulling at his lips. He hasn’t touched the soup yet.</p>
<p>“Or I’ll make you,” Derek answers. Stiles ponders for a second. </p>
<p>“Always with the threats,” he mumbles before he picks up the spoon and shoves it into his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	took a little time to make it a little better

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt I got on tumblr. The fic doesn't actually contain any romantic feelings between Stiles and Derek, it's more of a bro-fic or something like that, so that's that. It's a little down the road, I guess. See for yourselves.
> 
> Many thanks and hugs and kisses to Becky and Nashi. I'm a horrible whiny writer, so thank you for putting up with my bullshit.

Derek stares up the Stilinski house. There’s light in Stiles’ room—not that he’s surprised about that. He contemplates just climbing up and sneaking into the house through the window, like he does most times. Or did. Derek hasn’t been around much lately. It used to annoy the shit out of Stiles when Derek let himself in through the window, he knew, at one point Stiles even threatened to put up a line of mountain ash along his windowsill, and all the other windowsills in the house, so Derek would have been forced to use the front door. Derek smirks to himself remembering the conversation. Stiles never actually carried out his threat. 

It’s a conscious decision to use the front door this time—unlike all the other times, when climbing in through the window seemed to be the only possible way into the house. And frankly, Derek is tired of all the sneaking around, he doesn’t want to be tuned in on every movement Stiles’ dad makes downstairs, and being forced to hide behind the door when the Sheriff checks up on his son. Derek doesn’t have to hide from Stiles’ father anymore, so he might as well officially enter the Stilinski house through the front door. 

Derek doesn’t miss the surprise that flickers across the Sheriff’s face when he opens the door. Facing him makes Derek feel uneasy. Although the he seems to have accepted werewolves better than Derek would ever expect someone to handle the truth of it, he still can only guess what’s going on in the Sheriff’s head. However, the fact that he’s not having the barrel of a gun shoved in his face is probably a good sign. 

“Sheriff,” Derek says cutting the small silence that has settled over them once the door was open. 

“Derek,” Stiles’ father replies before stepping aside to wave him inside. “He is upstairs.”

When they pass the kitchen, the Sheriff pushes a bowl of soup gently into Derek’s hands, and sternly says, “Make sure he eats it.”

Derek neither asks nor argues. He balances the soup up the stairs, letting the warmth of the heated bowl seep through his skin, and the smell brings back long forgotten images from his memory. His mother used to make this soup for the humans in his family when they were sick. 

_Jesse’s scent is off that evening. It’s bitter and stinging, and Derek doesn’t know what it means. His cousin seems exhausted; his eyes drooping when they sit together in the living room and watching some TV show that Laura has turned on. Derek keeps watching him, trying to figure out what the meaning behind this is._

_“I’m going to bed,” Jesse announces standing up. Derek glances at the watch that hangs on the wall. It’s not even eight o’clock, and Jesse—as he’s older— always goes to bed after Derek is long asleep._

_“But it’s too early for you to go to bed,” Derek chimes in. Jesse gives him a tired smile and gently pats his head. “Are you okay?”_

_“I’m fine,” Jesse assures him, still smiling. The strange scent is biting to Derek’s nose. “I’m just so tired.”_

When he knocks on Stiles’ bedroom door, he gets a short, “Yep.”

The room smells of stale air, sweat and sickness. Stiles himself sits on his chair in front of his computer, covered in at least two blankets, sniffling every other second, and is surrounded by an insane amount of tissues. His skin is flushed but he’s hacking viciously although somewhat shakily at his keyboard, snuffling loudly and muttering under his breath. 

“You’re sick.” 

It comes out like a revelation, and Derek hates himself for that, because it’s stupid. It wasn’t hard to guess that Stiles is sick the second the Sheriff placed that bowl of soup into his hands. He has even smelled it before he entered Stiles’ room. 

Stiles jumps so hard he almost falls off his chair when he spins around. His eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open. He throws a glance to his window, his brows quirking a little, and Derek has no doubt that it was intentional; like he wants to taunt Derek with this, but Stiles reigns himself in quickly enough after that, his face blank.

“I’ve started to think you’ve forgotten about the concept of doors,” Stiles says finally. “I shall mark the day Derek Hale Started Using Doors in my calendar.”

Derek rolls his eyes, soup still in hands, and decides not to respond.

“You’re sick,” he states instead, again, to which Stiles just raises his eyebrows.

“It’s that obvious, huh?” he deadpans, sniffling pointedly, and starts collecting the blankets that fell off when he spun around. Stiles’ face is faintly flushed, his temperature obviously running a little higher than usual. He collects the blankets and wraps them back around himself, settling more comfortably into his chair. Stiles doesn’t look miserable per se but he doesn’t look good either. There’s a rasp every time he takes a breath, inhaling through his mouth, and a thin layer of sweat stretches across his forehead.

_“Why wasn’t Jesse in school with us?” Derek asks his mother. She’s standing at the stove cooking something that smells delicious—soup, Derek can tell. He hasn’t seen his cousin all day, and the thought of him never quite left his head. The bitter, biting smell from yesterday is lingering around his mom, very faintly but it’s enough for Derek to pick up._

_Laura snickers meanly and flicks a little paper ball against his head. “You’re so dumb.”_

_“Laura,” his mother cuts in sharply, shooting her a warning look. Laura ducks her head and mumbles a half-assed apology. Derek stares questioningly at Laura wondering what made her say that._

_“Jesse is sick, honey,” his mom says, turning to flash him a fond smile. She stirs the soup. Derek furrows his brows. It doesn’t make sense to him. Why would Jesse be sick?_

_“Why?” Derek inquires, settling on a chair and watching his mother cook. “Jesse can’t get sick.”_

_Laura flicks another paper ball at his head, grinning evilly. “Humans can get sick. They catch a cold and then they’re all gross and disgusting with all the snot and the coughing and sweating.” She grimaces._

_Derek watches his mom shoot Laura another dirty look. “Humans can get sick, yes,” she then explains. “Their immune system isn’t as strong as ours, and sometimes it can’t fight off the sickness.”_

_Derek’s eyes widen in horror when a thought strikes him. “Is Jesse going to die?”_

_“No, honey, he isn’t,” his mother says with a soothing tone to her voice, and Laura snorts. “When a human gets sick it doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re going to die. Actually, every fought off cold helps strengthen the immune system. You’ll learn all about it later in school.”_

Derek can’t quite decide whether he’s surprised about how vivid the memories from his past are— when he watched as his mother take care of the human members of his family when they were sick, lying in bed with fever that had their bodies running hot and sweating; tired and weak—or not. 

“What are you doing here anyway?” Stiles asks before Derek delves deeper into his train of thought. Stiles eyes him suspiciously as if he’s waiting for a shoe to drop. He glances at the bowls in Derek’s hands.

“Checking on you,” Derek replies, almost automatically. He resists rolling his eyes. “What does it look like?”

Stiles snorts—it sounds miserable, more like someone being choked to death. Derek refrains from snickering at that. 

“It looks like a weird-ass comedy starring you and a bowl of soup,” Stiles says sarcastically. He tries to snort again but ends up coughing instead. 

“I’m guessing the ability to use sarcasm is a good sign of health,” Derek snickers. Stiles draws in a deep breath and shoots him a dirty look.

“Bet you’ve been waiting forever to throw that back at me,” he rasps. “You’re so unoriginal, Derek, I’m experiencing the worst case of secondhand embarrassment right now.”

“You just can’t handle that two can play the game,” Derek answers trying not to let his amusement show. He walks over to Stiles’ nightstand that’s barely visible underneath all of the used tissues. Derek scrunches up his nose, picking up the edge of a tissue with two fingers and throws it in Stiles’ direction. He grabs one of the books that lies next to bed and swipes the nightstand clean of all the tissue paper with the back of the tome before putting the bowl down. “Your dad ordered that you eat the soup.”

“You’re taking orders from my dad now?” Stiles asks. He pulls out another tissue. 

“No, I’m just passing it on to you,” Derek answers easily. Stiles is halfway putting the tissue to his nose when he stills and widely gapes at him, stunned into silence. Derek furrows his brows, wondering once again what kind of revelation Stiles is experiencing. 

Stiles drops his hand and says, with an awestricken tone to his voice, “Dad let you in, and he didn’t shoot your ass full with wolfsbane.”

“I like to call it decency,” Derek points out dryly. It’s not like some part of him didn’t expect to find the Sheriff aiming a gun with wolfsbane bullets at him. He finds himself thinking, though, that he’s given Stiles’ dad less credit than he deserved. He had taken the whole werewolf situation surprisingly well. Derek didn’t talk to the Sheriff since the night he’s found out but he’s adjusted to the fact that supernatural creatures were real, and his son was deeply involved, and the relationship between him and Stiles has improved since, if Stiles statements and comments about it were anything to go by. 

“Get off the computer,” Derek says when the silence between them stretches. “You’re sick. You’re supposed to stay in bed and rest.”

“Aw. That’s actually cute,” Stiles coos with a cheeky grin, and Derek scowls at him. “But you’re not the boss of me, and there’s—”

Derek walks to Stiles’ desk and shuts the laptop. Having spun and pushed Stiles’ chair until he’s facing the bed, Derek tilts it until Stiles is nothing but faceplanting into the mattress. He yelps out a startled noise, scrambling to free himself from the layers of his blankets. 

“Way to treat a sick person,” Stiles exclaims, panting a little when he struggles free and sits up. His glower is stupidly endearing when his face is flushed and he just looks so tired. 

_The room is drenched in that sickening smell, bitter and biting and so very unpleasant that Derek scrunches up his nose. Jesse sits on his bed, wrapped in a blanket, books and blocks spread in his lap, and pours over them. His skin is flushed, and he’s rasping with every breath. The trash bin beside his bed is full with tissues, and there’s a mug with tea on his nightstand._

_“What did I tell you?” Derek’s mom pulls a book out of Jesse’s hands. She glances sternly at him. “No schoolwork until you’re feeling better. It can wait.”_

_Jesse has this look on his face that says he’s about to argue but then he sighs and collapses against the headboard. He grabs for a tissue and snorts noisily into it. Laura was right: it is gross. His mom hands Jesse the bowl filled with soup, and a spoon._

_“Derek will stay with you and make sure you eat the soup,” she says, patting Derek’s head before she leans to quietly tell Jesse, “Fear him at least a little.”_

_Jesse chuckles at that. Derek pouts and tries to wrench away when his mom grabs his face and plants an affectionate kiss on his forehead._

“Eat your soup,” Derek orders simply watching as Stiles moves up to lean against the headboard. Stiles tucks his legs under the blanket before he pulls the rest of them around himself again. Derek sits on the chair with the back rest pressing against his chest, and it’s almost stupid how familiar all of this seems to him. Almost too familiar, considering his family died so many years ago and he’s never had to look after someone who was sick after that. 

Stiles mutters some indignant comments under his breath. He reaches for the bowl nevertheless. The soup sloshes dangerously when he tries to settle against the headrest, and Derek is almost up to make sure Stiles doesn’t get broth all over himself. Stiles manages, though, and raises the bowl to smell it. He makes a face the moment he realizes he can’t.

Derek can’t hide his smirk. Stiles glares at him, “Stupid werewolves.”

“Eat,” Derek says again. Stiles quirks his eyebrows, and even though he appears exhausted, there’s a trace of a challenge in his eyes.

“Or what?” he prompts, a little grin is pulling at his lips. He hasn’t touched the soup yet.

“Or I’ll make you,” Derek answers. Stiles ponders for a second. 

“Always with the threats,” he mumbles before he picks up the spoon and shoves it into his mouth. His expression immediately changes into one of pure bliss. A little humming noise leaves his throat after he swallows.

“It wasn’t a threat,” Derek points out. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, grumpyass.”

“Ran out of words?”

“Ran out of threats?”

“Now who’s copying who?”

“Dude,” Stiles says and he looks like he doesn’t know whether to frown or to laugh. “You’re not funny.”

“Is that all you’ve got?” Derek counters. He crumbles up the wrapping paper of some candy that’s been lying on the floor and flicks it at Stiles. 

“Do you enjoy annoying sick people?” Stiles looks like he’s about to throw the soup in Derek’s face. He shoves another spoonful into his mouth, though. Another satisfied expression flickers across Stiles’ face.

“It’s infuriating being on the receiving end, isn’t it?” Derek remarks smugly. Stiles chokes on his soup, narrowing his eyes at Derek while some of the broth runs down his chin. He fumbles for a tissue, wiping his face, staring in what Derek thinks is supposed to be a menacing manner. 

“You’re gross,” Derek adds. 

“Well, yeah, and you’re stupid,” Stiles replies, and throws the tissue at Derek. To say that it was a poor attempt of a toss is an understatement. The tissue ends up falling onto Stiles tucked away knee, and Derek rests his forehead on his arms, laughing silently. 

“Why do I even put up with you?” Stiles asks exasperated, slurping in soup from his spoon. He sniffles dramatically. 

_“You’re lucky, Derek,” Jesse states in between putting the spoon into his mouth. He watches him intently, and even though he is feverish and sick there is an intense expression in his eyes. Derek frowns._

_“Why?” he asks curiously. Jesse huffs out a noiseless chuckle._

_“You can’t get sick,” he says matter-of-factly while he mindlessly stirs the remaining soup in the bowl, scowling at it. He seems frustrated, although Derek can’t tell why. “You have super hearing and smelling senses, you heal so fast, and there is hardly anything that can hurt you.”_

_“Do you want to be a werewolf?” Derek wants to know. It’s a surprise to him, he’s always thought that humans wanted to be humans. Jesse looks at him thoughtfully, like he is pondering the question but then a stubborn look settles on his features._

_“Yes,” Jesse answers, and he sounds so sure about it. “When I turn eighteen I’m going to ask your dad to give me the Bite. And then I’m going to be as strong and fast and unbreakable as you are. No one’s going to hurt me, and I’m never going to be sick again.”_

_After the fire, the burns on Jesse’s body are so severe that the medical examiner even has difficulties identifying him via his dental records._

When Derek looks at Stiles, he stares right back, huge honey-coloured eyes that regard him intently, like he can crawl into Derek’s mind and see what he thinks. Stiles has put down his spoon, hands wrapped tightly around the bowl, and they look at each other silently. Derek tries to detect something in Stiles’ heartbeat but there’s nothing. At times, it drives him nuts when Stiles gets quiet, so eerily quiet like he knows secrets he doesn’t want to share. Other times the silence is comforting, stretching out and wrapping around him, calming and soothing. It’s those moments in which Derek can never tell what’s going through Stiles’ head, and he’s dying to _know_. 

“Do you want to know? Sometimes?” Stiles is the first one to break the silence. He puts away the spoon and brings the bowl up to his lips.

“Know what?” Derek asks.

“How it is to be sick,” Stiles answers watching him over the rim of the bowl, sipping in the remains of the broth. “How it is to be human.”

Derek doesn’t answer right away. He remembers having this conversation with Laura when they were in New York, after the fire, tucked away in a tiny bed together, facing each other and seeking comfort in their closeness. Remembers talking about how they probably wouldn’t have been there if their family had been human, if they hadn’t been werewolves. Would it have changed anything? 

“Don’t you want to experience how it is? I mean being sick clearly sucks but still it’s something you’ll never know,” Stiles adds before licking little droplets off his lips and putting the bowl on the nightstand. He crosses his legs, tucking the blanket closer around himself. Derek thinks about how fragile he looks. “I mean, you know, I still could become a werewolf—not that I want to—but there is still the option that I could experience all your freaky werewolf senses and all that. But you can’t turn human.”

Derek thinks back, thinks about how Jesse was so determined about becoming a werewolf and how he’d gotten his wish fulfilled the day he turned eighteen. And how Stiles is so different, so keen to keep his humanity, _himself_. 

Stiles grows restless. “Sorry,” he mutters but Derek just shakes his head.

“Sometimes,” Derek confirms finally. “Sometimes, I think about it. I don’t think I would trade, though, if I had the chance.”

Stiles nods in a short motion. “It’s who you are.” It’s a statement, so sure, so final, and he doesn’t sound like he doesn’t understand. Derek just nods in agreement. 

“How is it? To be sick?” he asks then. Stiles rolls his eyes but there is a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It sucks. It’s nothing but dizziness, fever, coughing up disgusting slime, and snotting your way through a hundred tissue packs. I keep trying to focus on things but I end up staring blankly, it’s so annoying. Good thing I’m sick once in, like, seven years,” Stiles explains, sniffling again and wiping at his forehead. “Bright side is I get spoiled by everyone. Everyone is like, ‘Stiles, are you okay?’, ‘Stiles, is there anything we can do for you?’, ‘Do you need anything?’, it’s awesome I can tell you.”

“I didn’t know you liked being mothered,” Derek says amused, watching as Stiles stretches and slides deeper under the blankets. 

Shrugging Stiles replies, “I think I deserve it every once in a while, considering how I always have to run after you day and night to make sure you don’t get yourselves killed.”

Derek snorts at that, and Stiles’ smirk is broken by a yawn. “Pass me the pills, please?”

Derek turns around and grabs a little package with medicine, throwing it lightly so Stiles can easily catch it. He waits for Stiles to take the pills.

“You should sleep. Get some rest,” Derek tells him. “Tuck yourself away; I’m going to open the window for a few minutes. It stinks in here.”

He doesn’t miss Stiles’ wide, shit-eating grin, when he lies down and pulls the blankets up under his chin. Derek rolls his eyes as he walks to the window. The fresh air that streams inside when he opens it is cold and stinging. It’s still better than the stale stench in the room. Stiles rolls to his side.

“You took care of your family members, didn’t you? When they were sick,” Stiles states. His voice is quiet, almost shy, like he isn’t sure if he is allowed to ask that question. 

“We took care of each other,” Derek answers simply, remembering how his aunt once nursed a burn he got from wolfsbane. 

He closes the window a couple of minutes later. 

“Go to sleep.”

“Always so bossy.”

“Shut up and get some rest, Stiles,” Derek says, sighing. He walks over to the door and switches the light off. 

“Will you come by tomorrow again?” Stiles asks.

“Maybe.”

“Can you bring some of those muffins from this new café that opened in town?”

“You can’t possibly be that sick,” Derek huffs but he can’t help but smile a little. Stiles stares at him through the darkness and his eyes are big and begging.

“Derek,” he whines, almost child-like. “Please?”

Derek sighs heavily. “Fine.”

Stiles beams sleepily at him, his eyes already drooping. “Thank you, oh big Alpha.”

Derek rolls his eyes again, muttering, “Shut up,” and closing the door quietly. 

Great. Now he’s spoiling Stiles too.

**Author's Note:**

> Derek is six/seven-ish in the flashbacks. It's the first memory he has of someone in his family being sick.


End file.
